


No Pond without Drowners

by taekaneru



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Smut, in the widest sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24715741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taekaneru/pseuds/taekaneru
Summary: “So, will you now tell me what concerned Dijkstra so much that he fled his holy secret base?”Or:Roche wants to brood in solitude and Geralt applies his certified persuasion skills. Roche is not to be fooled with.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche
Comments: 14
Kudos: 71
Collections: White and Silver





	No Pond without Drowners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shenko464](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenko464/gifts).



> This is for shen, who charmed me into doing a fic exchange. Thank you for your patience and your inspiration. 
> 
> Yet: I struggled so much with the framework of the original prompt that I just tried to focus on the things you might be wishing for and injected them into another setup… it’s not the same, I know, but I still hope you like it. It’s set up sometime around _A Deadly Plot_ in TW 3, furthered by the fact that Dijkstra and Roche and their Club of Retired Intel hide out at the Passiflora. Seriously? Okay... cool. Try me!

“Just fuck off, Geralt, leave me alone,” Thaler grins, already stuffing forlorn shoes into his wagon and rummaging around for some ropes to tie everything together.

“Are you sure? You know where to find your pals?” Geralt eyes the man, slender stature, only light armor, and no weapons that could be taken seriously when in trouble.

“Yes, I just have to get my shit together and then fetch one of those fucking lame mares over there and I’ll be on my fucking way. Hell, thank you again, Geralt. Couldn’t have made it out of that shithole of troll scum by myself, I’m really fucking lucky.”

“Okay, okay, all’s good. Take all the time you need,” Geralt says, hands raised mockingly. “See you there.”

In all honesty: He’s relieved. Talking Thaler out of the troll stew and accompanying him back to his cart had felt like it had taken ages, the man strolling along the way like nothing and no one could disturb him (which is a fucking lie, and the reason that Geralt had had to come for him in the first place). 

Now, everything seems to be in order again and he can ride back to Novigrad on his own again. No Temerian slowing him down anymore.

Whistling, he calls Roach, pulls himself up onto his horse, and bidding another farewell to Thaler, he departs out of the woods, in the direction of the city.

Pushing Roach into an easy canter, he lets the breeze clear his mind, pondering where to go next. There are indeed piling up some contracts and there still is the main reason why he’d loitered around Novigrad: Ciri.

Maybe he can first stop by Zoltan to unload some stuff. His saddlebags have gotten considerably heavy. Another round of pints also wouldn’t harm. Every time he’s at the Rosemary and Thyme, Zoltan tries to coax him into a few rounds of Gwent and at least half a barrel of beer. No chickening out without getting drinks first.

Passing the last fields before the city walls, he decides to do exactly that and directs Roach to Zoltan’s and Dandelion’s place.

\---

“…and don’t let yourself get into trouble again, Geralt, I’m not sober enough to come to brawl you out!” Zoltan shouts after him and the door slams shut, as Geralt leaves the tavern and stretches his arms over his head. Several joints crack satisfyingly, and he lets his shoulders slump down a little again, the beer having mellowed the events of the day considerably.

Meeting up with Zoltan had been nice, but still, he doesn’t feel like wasting the whole night away on beer and booze. Still, no idea what he’ll be doing instead. But – so what.

Just walking around a bit should be fine, maybe he will find something interesting to do or a nice place to sit and watch the beautiful nightly Pontar delta for a bit. Sleep won’t come easy anyway, so a quiet night on a beautiful view in a sleeping city may have its perks.

Geralt turns right and starts wandering the alleys, switching in taking turns, one left, the next one right, then left again. There are few people on the streets, the occasional prostitutes near the harbor and wheedling sods who cannot afford them. Some lone wanderers with their hoods pulled deep into their overshadowed faces, some drunkards on their way to find some sleep.

Strolling along another alley and around a corner, he suddenly recognizes he’s in front of the Passiflora. Huffing a laugh, he goes to squeeze into the alley next to the building, passing by a few carts to continue his walk.

With a sudden crash disrupting the night, a side door flies open and two guards pour out, and—a grumpy Dijkstra on their heels.

“Oh, _Geralt_ , what a coincidence! I take it you found Thaler?” Dijkstra prods, stepping up to Geralt and puffing out his chest.

“Ah, yes. He’s on his way back I assume, had to still fix his cart; if you’re wondering why he’s late…”

“Geralt, as expected, good work!” Dijkstra slaps his hand on his shoulder. “Also, Thaler’s always slow, whether on his feet or with his work, but never mind. It’s the quality that counts!” His smirk looks a bit ugly when he adds, voice grave, “Good you’re finally back.”

Dijkstra squeezes the words through his teeth, face layered with urgency and stress underneath the usually so hard expression. Geralt immediately senses his worries.

“Is something up?”

Dijkstra laughs, brief and harsh.

“Yeah, you could say that! It’s Roche. Fucking hell, he’s gotten himself in some state, I thought it best to leave him alone, as I still have business to do and he refused to quiet down his shouting and growling. Also, wanted no help from the ladies here. ‘Tis a pity!”

Geralt’s face contorts from wonder to confusion as Dijkstra goes on, pointing at the guard to his left. “Missed me with his fucking dagger but got Will here, so we’re dragging him off to the healer and then we’re not back until tomorrow evening. I hope Roche has gotten the reigns back on himself by then!”

The Witcher lets his eyes roam over Will, following the trickle of blood sliding from his collarbone down into the man’s garments. The color of his face is rather pale, although the blood has almost dried now.

Confusion melts into worry, but he pulls two and two together.

“And you want _me_ to look after Roche, I assume?”

“Exactly! Geralt, you’re always so quick to have your wits together. Better go now, before he gets worse. I would trust no one with him but you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Dijkstra gives Geralt’s shoulder a light shove, finally loosening his grip and with a bark of a laugh, drags his men with him and off they are.

Not that Dijkstra _actually_ warned him. Geralt huffs. Something is up with Roche, but why should this be any other than some regular hissy fit? That injured guard has for sure earned his wound. Roche is not careless, never careless. 

Roche is most composed, in control of his temper, his body, and his mind. Still, even now that he has seen and sensed Dijkstra’s earnestness, the situation remains beyond his imagination.

Hopefully not some kind of possession or wraith or what the hell, but if so, then nobody would probably be better suited than him. Also, Roche—possessed? He cannot imagine that any creature would manage to influence Roche beyond his will, as he’s as stubborn as he’s loyal.

But Dijkstra’s worries have gotten to him by now. 

Roche is a dear friend, probably his dearest friend. The most allegiant, most capable one. One he’s relied on countless times, would rely on always and again and that he graces in turn with equal loyalty and understanding. A friend who seems to be in a pinch now. Well, he doesn’t know exactly, but still.

Time to find out then.

If _he_ were in a mysterious situation where even his brothers in arms leave? Surely now there is a dire need for a real friend for once.

Shuffling the swords on his back, Geralt bangs against the door which had just spit out Dijkstra and his men and then enters directly, looking for the Marquise. The lounge is relatively empty for a Friday evening, but for all he knows, the pack is probably in the private rooms by now, amusing themselves together with some of the ladies.

The Marquise is sitting at the bar, sipping on something clear and sparkly.

“Geralt,” she hums without turning and he’s once again wondering if she’s all human, what with her senses spotting him sneaking up at her. “Back so soon? What can I help you with today?”

Seeing her smirk, the Witcher sighs, bracing himself on the wooden counter.

“No, thank you, maybe some other time. I’m here looking for the same as last time.” Geralt huffs a half-earnest laugh.

“I know, I know. You should be sorry you’re always on duty! Here, take this key.”

It’s a heavy key, golden, but battered.

“Thank you,” he nods, turning for the corner and unlocking the door leading to the hidden stairwell.

Climbing upwards, he ponders what will expect him when he reaches Dijkstra’s dubious little hide-out. He starts listening for loud noises halfway up and concentrates on his Witcher senses, feeling for supernatural or any other influences wafting through the ether.

He holds his breath. Nothing.

No guard is waiting, unlike the last time he’d visited, but now a door conceals the top of the last stairs leading to the attic floor. 

He’s _definitely_ not knocking. If there is any weird person or creature or ghost, he doesn’t need to give it an advantage by waiting patiently on the doorstep.

There’s still no noise. _But wait_. What’s that? Gripping the handrail, he focuses on the aura he can feel there. He recognizes Roche’s form, alive, blood pulsing, breathing. He seems slumped onto the large bed which Dijkstra had set up, but he’s motionless.

His breathing is shallow, rapid.

There seems to be no other presence in the room.

Carefully, Geralt starts pressing against the wooden door. It gives way slowly, but easily and he silently steps up and inside, lowering the wood down into its hinges again.

He lets his gaze roam over the large desk that Dijkstra had been propped up against when he’d been here the last time. There’s no one to see.

When he looks around towards the neighboring room he’s reminded again of the actual purpose of these rooms, located on the top level of the finest brothel in all of Novigrad, complete with a sizable bathing tub, fresh fruit, and cold drinks, ridiculously large bed and all sorts of things you could imagine in lonely nights.

Roche seems to be lying on that exact bed, face down, judging by his feet, boots still on, dangling off the edge.

“Roche?” Geralt coughs slightly, carefully nearing the other room. “It’s me, Geralt.”

Roche is indeed lying on the bed, pillow pressed on his head to drown out the noise, hands gripping the fabric with knuckles white. He’s in full armor, save for sword and crossbow. His heart rate is elevated, body temperature just short of a full fever.

He does not react.

“Roche,” Geralt repeats, louder this time. “Are you okay? Can I help you?”

The Witcher steps to the edge of the bed, hesitantly pressing a hand on the mattress beside Roche.

Fraction of a second later, Roche flips simultaneously up and to the side away from him, letting out an agonized cry. He crashes off the bed onto the floor.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Geralt hisses, hastily rounding the bed. “Roche, what’s up?”

“Geralt,” Roche cowers on the floor, curving in on himself, huffing. “Fuck, didn’t hear you coming. I’m— _don’t touch me_!” He coils away from Geralt’s reaching hands.

“What’s up? Are you injured? Something is not right here, I can feel it.”

Roche lets out a noise almost sounding like a whimper, although for someone like him it sounds more like a wounded growl.

“Don’t— _fucking_ —touch me, _please_ , Geralt.”

Geralt sinks beside him, hand still hovering mid-air between them.

 _What’s happening here?_ Something _is_ wrong with Roche. Touching isn’t something they commonly do, but Roche had never before recoiled like this when they’d been fighting together or creeping over walls while pressed next to each other, or even huddling together at the table at the inn with the others.

“Okay, okay. Fuck, I won’t.”

“How did you even get here?” Roche growls. “What fucker let you in?”

Geralt snorts.

“Same as last time. Dijkstra sent me up to look after you. Told me you needed my help…”

“That whoreson!”

Roche seems to relax marginally, slumping against the side of the bed, but his knees are up, and his arms are braced against his chest.

“So, will you now tell me what concerned Dijkstra so much that he fled his holy secret base?”

“Don’t you know it already? What with you supernatural Witcher’s senses?” Roche spits.

He has his chin lowered onto his chest, eyes burning with cynicism and anger, and—with shame? He’s sweating, face covered in a thin sheen, glistening. A drop slides by his ear, down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. The fabric of his gambeson is halfway to soaked, the edges of his shirt don’t look much different.

“As you might know, I’m no sorcerer or oracle.”

Roche huffs.

“But I can see that something is wrong with you.” Geralt straightens up, schooling his facial expression into one of responsibility. “Okay, there are no monsters, wraiths, or succubi here, but if you want me to spell it out: Your body temperature is elevated, as is your pulse. You breathe too shallowly for a healthy person and your eyes look feverish. And you smell _desperate_.”

Geralt raises his hands in mock surrender.

“I would have checked for injuries, but you wanted to play the shy virgin, although I doubt you are injured seriously as I do not smell blood. Also, the temperature of your body doesn’t appear to be concentrated abnormally for it to indicate grave internal bleedings.”

Roche groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Tell me, how can I help you? I can see you’re feeling like shit. Is it poison?”

Rubbing his hands down his sweaty face, Roche heaves another breath.

“Fuck. As if _I’d_ know!”

Geralt reaches his left hand out to grab at Roche’s shoulder in what he hopes conveys the earnestness of his concern.

Roche startles away from him again with a pained moan.

“Fuck you! What did I say? Do not touch me!” He scuffles further towards the corner where the bed is pushed against the wall. “I don’t _know_! I think it’s maybe something that I drank or ate or _whatever_ the fuck someone brought up here earlier, but I just feel—,” He grits his teeth together, shuffling his knees further towards his body, squeezing his arms around his legs.

“Roche,” Geralt scolds, “I’ll help you, so please, tell me. What did you ingest? How do you feel?”

Roche nods towards the bowl with apples and the pitcher with beer.

“One of the girls brought this two hours ago. I had one apple and half of the beer. Dijkstra just had wine.”

Geralt gets up and inspects the pitcher and the apples, sniffs them.

“Hm… Seems normal. No magic here.” He pulls one glove off and dips a finger into the beer, letting it drop onto the table. He raises his finger to his mouth and licks it. Roche groans as if shot.

The beer prickles on Geralt’s tongue. Yeast, hops, and malt, and something else that irritates his taste buds to an unusual degree. He grimaces.

“This is spiked,” he concludes, pointing at the pitcher and then looking at Roche. The man’s face is red, eyes closed, his expression agonized. “You feel tingly, hot, dizzy?”

Roche murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like _Motherfucker_ , then awkwardly clears his throat.

“Fuck you! But yeah, you could say that!”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“And you should be feeling slightly… horny?” He grins.

Roche doesn’t even grace him with a reply, obviously fuming.

“You should be fine. There is no real harm done, this should eventually wear off completely. You said you drank half of it… I assume you’ll be having a night’s worth of it, should be fine by morning if you ask me—”

“I didn’t ask you! I told you to leave me alone!” Roche explodes. “You’d have made the _worst_ fucking soldier, never fucking listening!” He slams a fist down onto the floor so hard that the bedside table rattles and a candleholder topples over. “I already told Dijkstra I wanted to be left alone, _for fuck’s sake_!”

He’s still breathing heavily, face flaming, and it’s clear by now, that he’s not only angry and _all_ of the above, but also embarrassed. 

Geralt’s shoulders drop.

“I suppose, based on what I heard from Dijkstra, that he’d already proposed acknowledging the actual purpose of the location where you’re at?”

Geralt catches the candleholder flying towards him just in front of his face.

“Is there _anything_ helpful in your _fucking_ Witcher lore,” Roche spits, “As your obtuse existence apparently does not want to leave a man to suffer for himself?!”

Roche pulls himself up, just enough to heave his body onto the mattress again, burying himself into cushions and blankets despite his body burning up. He’s facing away, but Geralt recognizes a peace offering where there’s one. The man seems to have worn down, although the Witcher does not dare to mistake this as a capitulation to his pressing. Roche’s too proud for that.

“Correct! I’d rather argue with you than leave you to sulk in pain alone. I could check my notes, if there’s something helpful, and Dijkstra seems to have set up half a library over there.”

Roche grunts.

“Did you maybe try taking a cold bath? _Something_?”

“No,” Roche’s voice comes muffled by the fabric, “Thought it’ll pass eventually. Didn’t want to move. Makes it worse.”

Geralt checks the reports and scripts he has in his bags, but there is nothing.

“You should, though. Shed at least that fucking chainmail. You still even have that hat on! If you further overheat this might accelerate the distribution of the substance in your system. It could be favorably if you cool down and… try to relieve some of the strain.”

A pillow hits the floor.

“Did you really suggest I whip one out while you watch?!” Roche seethes, head raised from the blankets, eyes comically large.

Geralt is perusing the spines of the books on Dijkstra’s large shelf on the other side of the room.

“ _Yes_? Ah, _No_ on the watching, I mean, but don’t tell me you didn’t even try the most obvious solution?”

“I am no man of the easy guilty pleasures of the flesh,” Roche grumbles into the sheets.

“Well, yes, I assumed so, but seriously? You should just get it out of your system. I’m sure a local blood stasis does no one any good.”

Geralt pulls a thick weathered volume down from the highest level of the shelf. _Love Potions_ is the title engraved on the back, and he opens the pages to a cloud of dust.

“Are you fucking _ill_ ,” Roche gruffs from the bed.

“There is a fairly large collection of love potions in here,” the Witcher ignores him. “But I’d have to know what ingredients have been used to prepare some type of antidote, and that would require lengthy interrogations, researching, purchasing or collecting the stuff I need to make the antidote, assuming the person that mixed your stuff won’t just give it to me by asking nicely, and then I have to brew the thing or whatever…” Geralt sighs.

Roche is still pressed face down on the bed, in between the sheets, practically bristling with rage and the effects of his drink.

“Long story short: That will all take longer than you dealing with the side effects. Come morning, it will have worn off. There’s no magic involved, so I imagine it’s just a usual aphrodisiac.”

Putting the book back, Geralt strolls over to the sideboard, resting against it with crossed arms. Roche’s state does not seem to have improved, as his senses tell him now stronger than before. He’s still feverish, unreasonably still fully clothed.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he goes to carefully sit on the mattress next to Roche’s form.

“ _Roche_. I’m the last person who would be mocking you. You may have managed to send Dijkstra away, which I would have recommended anyway, and I understand that you want no … help from here. But please just listen to me?”

Roche does not attempt to grace him with a reply, facing the other side, but Geralt sees the increased tension in the slope of the man’s back at his words. His smell is different than usual, which is possibly due to the potion. Geralt unconsciously takes a deep breath, preparing his last great speech, and he’s almost hazy with the rush of pheromones. _What the fuck._ He clears his throat.

“I’ll leave, but at least rid yourself of your gambeson and stuff. Take a bath, I _swear_ it’ll help. There’d been that one time someone put something like that in my drink, and while I know Witchers are not that affected, taking off my clothes and going for a swim definitely helped. At least with the dizziness. And I assume you’d want that, at most?” Geralt huffs, straightening up and looking over the room to the large wooden tub. He feels an increase in his body temperature, a sheen of sweat forming on his hairline.

If this is some kind of fucking feedback-loop-joke, he’s going to locate the shithead who did this and give them a good beating of his own before Roche even spits his next insult.

Roche is still motionless on the bed, but his whole body is tense to the point of muscles trembling.

“I consider you my closest friend,” Geralt croaks out of nowhere, “ _Please_ , let me help you.” He feels faint all of a sudden, wiping his hands on his trousers.

_What the fuck is going on here?_

Just when Geralt masters control over his seemingly wobbly legs again and gets up, Roche shoots up from the bed with a curse, startling the Witcher into a stumble.

“What the _fucking_ fuck! OKAY!” Roche’s patience snaps with the sound of the buttons of his shirt on his throat ripping from the fabric.

Geralt catches himself on the wall next to the bed, back pressed against the decorated wood, and he can only watch with wide eyes.

Roche looks fiercely at him, eyes burning, glare precise like an arrow to the center of the target. He’s sitting on the bed now, untying the rope around his waist, further ripping off his shirt until Geralt can see bare, tan skin on his toned chest and abdomen. The sweat glistening like a shimmer of gold startles him into reality again.

“Roche—” he blurts, before the Temerian interrupts him by chucking his gambeson to the floor, white shirt drifting down on top of it, leaving a— _very_ well-sculpted, attractive man brooding in front of him, face a scowl but somehow always so handsome— _when had he started thinking those things?!_

Okay, Roche is supposedly well-built, as any man of his skill, speed, and strength had to be. His face had always been fairly symmetrical, strong jawline, dark, expressive eyes. Maybe Geralt had known this all along invariably, as he thinks of himself being capable to appreciate the abstract concept of beauty, but at this moment it feels like an epiphany.

He watches, frozen against the wall and with clenched fists, as Roche pushes his fingers under the dark blue chaperon on his head and witnesses for maybe the first time how he looks without it. His hair, brown, darker with sweat, is shorn at the sides and the back, short and tousled on top of his head, Roche’s hands skimming through it in abrupt motions.

Although the man in front of him is, on principle, far from it, Geralt feels like he’s in someone’s wet dream and the star of the show has just begun.

“Ah—Roche—“ he tries again, not knowing what to say anyway. _Maybe there is some magic involved? Is this all an elaborate spell?_ He stretches a hand towards him, in an attempt to stop whatever is going on, but Roche just raises an eyebrow, mouth set.

“What. Are. You. Waiting for?” Roche grits, but his eyes are wide.

“I—ah, I didn’t—"

Roche snorts, tugging at his belt and pulls it free with a whipping sound. He tosses it at Geralt, the iron buckle hitting his chest just below his medallion.

“ _Roche_ ,” the Witcher urges again, lightheaded with the last rays of sun reflecting on Roche’s body, his fingers just starting on the buttons of his leather trousers. The sharp edges of his hipbones distract him for another moment for reasons he does not comprehend, but he has to bring this to a halt somehow.

Geralt snaps himself out of his stupor and grabs Roche’s wrists, squeezing the bones to the degree of a pained moan from the Temerian in an attempt to stop him undressing further.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Roche growls, pushing the Witcher bodily back to the wall. The impact makes all breath leave his lungs. When he fills up on much-needed air, he inhales Roche’s scent again, warm skin, leather, sword oils, and woodsmoke. And just like that, the dizziness is back again.

Roche presses firmly against him, his hands still locked between them, and Geralt lets them go with a startle, raising his hands in surrender.

Roche presses his chin to the Witcher’s collarbone, and the anticipation has Geralt holding his breath. He feels the other’s quick heartbeat, so close to his own, his breath fanning over the skin at his neck.

They stand like this for some long moments, frozen against each other, fused as close as two people can be with Geralt’s tunic still separating them. Roche’s sweaty skin slightly chafing with each breath on the leather and steel appliances on his armor.

Geralt cannot deny this position is one he never thought he’d find himself in, but at the same time, there’s a thrill to it that has his excitement spiking to unknown heights.

Slowly letting out the breath he had been holding, air grazing Roche’s left ear, he realizes he’s made a decision. A monumental one, something tells him, but he doesn’t perceive it as such anymore. It’s just— _logical_. 

When Roche’s fingers seem to stretch out on the fabric of his tunic, the Witcher’s hands start to tremble. He stays still.

Roche seemingly understands this as permission to go on, and his motions accelerate again. He squeezes his fingers below the armor, blunt nails grazing Geralt’s skin through his undershirt, starting to tug frantically at the fabric.

This somehow spins the Witcher into motion and his hands clutch Roche’s shoulders, fingers almost slipping on the man’s hot skin, and with a forceful push, he shoves him back onto the mattress.

Roche’s eyes widen for an instant, mouth opening in what is supposedly another insult, but Geralt isn’t letting him have it anymore. 

He flicks open the belts holding his swords, letting them clatter to the ground. Under the heated, but unreadable gaze of the Temerian, he loosens the fastenings of his armor, one to four, then shrugs out of it and throws himself onto the man on the bed, gripping his arms and latching onto the skin on his neck with a firm bite.

Roche only utters a soundless gasp, arching up towards Geralt with a moan on the next breath, legs parting and accommodating him like they’d been made to fit together like this forever.

Geralt curses under his breath, teeth digging into the tendons on Roche’s neck anew, already marking him up like he already has lost all control and it’s his basest desire which Roche managed to set free.

He feels Roche impossibly hot and hard against him, and with a firm grind down onto his hips, a tremble goes through the other’s body before he goes all tense and then freezes, a relieved groan ripping from his throat with a shudder.

A drop of sweat falls from Geralt’s face onto Roche’s cheek and he becomes aware of what he’s just watched.

Roche looks blissed out, eyes shut, brows slightly furrowed, mouth agape, tongue wetting his upper lip, orgasm a beautiful look on him. Geralt is amazed that _he’s_ the one that got this man so far. That he’s so fortunate to observe this unique sight.

Desire is burning through his veins, hot and insistent. Still, he’s at a loss what to do now.

Roche chooses that moment to open his eyes and finds Geralt’s as he expected them on him.

“Mmh,” he just murmurs, fingers stretching out, hips giving an almost-wiggle.

Geralt loosens his grip on Roche’s arms and props himself up a bit, feeling the need to get some kind of communication going. They’re both adults, friends on top. The Witcher has always considered himself as a man of the world, with an open mind, and practiced ease at living. At loving.

Though he has to admit that nothing about Roche is practiced or ordinary. While Geralt may or may not had bedded the one or other guy in the past, they were never as remarkable as Roche is. Perhaps it’s that to date he’s never dared to make a move on a man he’d already known so intimately before. To form such a deep alliance, based on their rough start when he’d been incarcerated, their relationship has always, despite everything, been based on mutual respect, loyalty, and trust. 

The only dimension remaining to explore regarding their relationship had been a physical one. Where Roche’s personality has lain the foundation for everything Geralt sees in him, his actions, demeanor, and outward appearance only furthered that he’s long come to admiring Roche. 

_In exactly every way possible_ , as it seems.

“So… ahem. We did that.” Geralt mumbles.

Roche has the guts to face him with a deadpan look.

“Fucking fuck. Yeah… We did. Apparently.”

“Feel any better yet?”

“Possibly? Maybe… a bath would be adequate now,” Roche winces, his mouth turning down briefly. His hands rise and Geralt thinks he wants to push him away, but he only smooths his hands down Geralt’s neck, down over his shoulders.

“If I come to think of it, you _should_ join me,” Roche orders, face straight in the eye of Geralt’s half incredulous, half anticipating expression. 

Apparently, that’s just how it’s gonna be from now on. _Just them_ , as always. The naturalness that Roche exudes baffles him slightly. Judging by his earlier behavior this course of things would have been the least probable one he’d have bet his gold on.

“I’d love to,” he smirks, deciding that he likes this side of Roche as well. _Much. Very much._

Geralt huffs and pushes himself up, helping Roche up in the process.

His gaze slides down to the man’s neck. The bite there is glowing an angry red, and Geralt just hopes Roche will not kill him if he spots it in a mirror later.

He starts pulling his shirt over his head, opening his trousers, and letting them slide to the floor, losing his boots and stepping out of them just as Roche does the same.

The sight of his naked body, strong, but marked by countless battles, is one of a kind. His back is as muscular as his chest, his butt, and legs toned. More like a wiry strength than just bulk mass.

He watches as Roche goes to the tub and steps on the little crate to heave himself into the still warm water, unashamed to ogle all he wants now that he seems to be allowed.

“You coming?” Roche teases, and Geralt is weak to the look he’s graced with and follows him in.

Roche pulls on his shoulder when he’s just in the water, pressing him down until he’s crouching on his knees on the bottom of the tub, just his head above the surface. The way he fits Roche into his arms and settles him on his lap immediately is as inevitable as their whole history.

Roche straddles him, legs hugging the Witcher’s hips and Geralt can’t not notice his firm erection pressing against his stomach. When his cock slides between the cheeks of Roche’s arse, he moans, feeling like he’s the one experiencing the effects of an aphrodisiac.

Roche gasps into his ear when he grabs his arse, fingers teasing down the cleft. He burrows his face into the Temerian’s neck, latching onto the skin there, sucking it between his teeth.

“Ah, Geralt,” Roche groans, his fingers digging into his shoulders, arms winding around his neck, gripping his head and pressing it closer to him.

“Roche,” Geralt murmurs between nips and sucks, “I _never_ guessed you—you _would_ —“

“Less talking, Witcher.”

Geralt slides one hand up to Roche’s nape, tugging his head back gently, while his other hand slides lower between his cheeks, the hot soapy water making the glide easy. When he brushes against the puckered opening, Roche is wrecked by a shudder and he makes the loudest noise of pleasure so far.

“I have to know. _Why_?” Geralt urges, rubbing his finger slowly up and down, searching the man’s eyes.

Roche trembles like a leaf and moans, eyelids fluttering.

“Come on, Roche, I know you can tell me, can’t you?” he teases.

The pitch of Roche’s gasps increases in urgency and Geralt knows he’s just short of coming again. He’s writhing on his lap, cock still pressed against his taut stomach. 

His erection almost aches with neglect.

He licks over the bruises on Roche’s neck he’s sucked earlier, hugging his body to him, dipping his finger into him a fraction.

“Come on, Roche,” he urges, and when he fucks his finger in deeper, another orgasm is torn from Roche with a wail.

“I can do this all night,” Geralt whispers into Roche’s heated slick skin. “Tell me.”

“Ahh, Geralt,” Roche croaks, slumping against him, shivering. Geralt’s finger is still stroking him inside.

“Hm?”

“Ah—, I—I, oh, for fucks—for fuck’s sake! What do you think?!” Roche challenges, already partly recovered from his climax. Geralt feels him go hard again. _He’s going to go insane. How can this man still taunt him so much?_

“I think you want to tell me, Commander.”

Roche snorts, pressing back onto his finger with a quiet groan. His expression is torn between pleasured and annoyed.

“Fine! Fine. Fucking fuck! I fucking _want_ you, Witcher. _I want you to fuck me_. I may want you to do it again later,” he groans, head tipped back as he fucks himself on Geralt’s finger, seemingly unashamed and never going back.

“Roche,” Geralt growls, at a loss of further words, pushing the man down and teasing his rim with a second finger. The water sloshes around their shoulders as Geralt presses him back against the side of the tub, slightly rising on his knees.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Roche gasps. “May want you to do it again tomorrow. Or the day after that. How’s that sound?” he says when Geralt fucks the second finger into his tight hole.

“Sounds fucking—ah, fucking great,” he groans, sliding his cock behind Roche’s balls and bumping against his fingers. His mouth finds Roche’s temple, his head is laying on the edge of the tub, eyes closed in bliss.

“Ah, Geralt, do—do one more, please,” Roche orders, _and who’s he to disobey?_

“You drive me fucking _crazy_ , Roche,” the Witcher hisses, grazing his teeth over Roche’s ear, biting lightly along the shell. Still, the more teeth he uses, the more Roche seems to like it, so he applies another firm bite to the soft skin below his ear, to the sharp line of his jaw.

Roche’s knees shudder around his hips when he slips a third finger in, fucking all of them deeper.

“You’re so fucking tight.”

“Ah, _nngh_ , Geralt, I—,”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll take care of you.”

He murmurs these words into the underside of Roche’s jaw, teeth still nipping at the edge, lips connecting to the skin in small kisses more and more.

“Geralt,” Roche groans, a hand closing around the Witcher’s neck in a feeble attempt at strangulation, “Just fuck me! Fuck me already, I can’t take it anymore,” he starts growling, almost rambling, “Put your fucking cock in me already, _please_ , Geralt, I— _I need you_ , please!”

“God, _Roche_ ,” Geralt groans, a blazing rush of need lighting all of his nerve endings, and he pulls his fingers free, gripping Roche’s arse with both hands and pulling him up again. His cock catches on his rim, and Roche arches against him, reaching a hand down into the water, gripping Geralt’s cock.

They fumble for a moment, but then Roche has hollowed his back enough, knees high up, pressed against the wood, and holds Geralt’s thick cock until the head is pressed directly against his rim. With a tight roll of his hips, Geralt pushes forward and when the head of his cock fully slips past the tight ring of muscle, he almost can’t hear Roche’s moan over his own.

He fucks into the man in little thrusts, pulling out a bit, then pushing up some more, stretching him open in the most intimate way, and the sensation is superior. On every shallow thrust Roche lets out little _ahs_ , and he cannot reign himself in anymore, so he fucks in the last two inches of his cock at once, impaling him and seating himself fully in the tight, almost scorching hot heat of his body.

“Geralt,” Roche moans, both arms around his neck, holding on for his life, head rolling to the side, mouth open on a silent cry, and his face is so _beautiful_ it hurts.

He crashes his lips on Roche’s in a fierce, almost brutal kiss, consumed by the sheer enormity of the things the man makes him feel.

Roche’s mouth opens with a helpless gasp, tongue pushing into Geralt’s mouth immediately, and in the blink of an eye, they’re kissing _deeply_ , passionately, both giving as good as they’ve got. Roche’s lips feel amazing, soft, firm, his tongue is hot, his mouth wet and the tingle that shoots down his spine as their tongues tangle makes him dizzy.

When he pulls his cock back to thrust back in, Roche’s mouth is ripped away in favor of a hoarse moan, but they reconnect immediately. Kissing becomes increasingly difficult as they’re both gasping open-mouthed against each other with each roll of Geralt’s hips.

The urgency builds, tension ramping up, as Geralt is fucking into Roche’s tight arse in earnest now, the slide easy, hot, the man clenching on his cock, arching his back, and it’s all for him.

“Fuck Geralt, I—ah—I’m gonna—,” Roche gasps, voice hoarse.

“Roche, fuck, you feel _so—fucking—good_ ,” Geralt manages, sliding his arms under Roche’s knees and hoisting his legs further up and the man reacts with a noise like a wail. The next thrust must have Geralt fucking against his prostate, as Roche’s moans are almost soundless now, his body tight in ecstasy, and when Geralt fucks in twice more, his voice _cracks_ and he’s _coming_ and _clenching_ down on his cock so that he can only thrust shallowly anymore.

“Roche, _gods_ ,” he moans, “Gonna fuck you through it, gonna— _ah_ , fuck you—” he grits through his teeth, kissing the man, nipping on slack lips as Roche only gives little moans, shaking in the sloshing water from his climax and the oversensitivity.

“Geralt! Ah, yes—! _Oh, god—yes—_ "

Geralt feels his own orgasm near with what’s probably lightspeed, but he’s determined to give Roche more.

“Gonna make you _mine_ ,” he growls, pressing kisses down the slope of his neck. He rolls his hips in tight thrusts, fucking deeply and shallowly now, cock sliding against Roche’s prostate again and again. He presses in as far as possible, letting his left hand tease the rim and his right one to grip Roche’s still firm cock.

“Do you feel me?” he whispers, licking Roche’s neck.

“Yes, _ah—ah—_ ,” Roche gasps, drunk with want.

The Witcher’s fingers slide over the velvety skin of Roche’s cock, stroking it, and when he digs his thumb in under the head, he feels Roche tighten up again. Within another two or three thrusts, he feels Roche’s cock twitch and spurt, Roche’s voice almost gone with the strain on his vocal cords, his moan wrecked and spent. 

He fucks into the tightness again, and again, and _again_ , and then he also cannot hold himself back anymore and comes, hiding a groan and curses into the skin at Roche’s neck. He fucks in in shivery short thrusts until he almost cannot take it anymore, then sinks his teeth into the muscle on Roches deltoid with a growl. Roche jerks in his grip and hisses in what sounds like a mixture of a gasp and a moan.

The Temerian pulls his head back up and after a brief look, both with wide eyes, they kiss again, hotly. Lips sliding against another, tongues pushing at each other, for what seems like minutes, until they both have calmed down considerably.

When Geralt’s softened cock slips out of Roche, both groan quietly, Roche sighing, looking satisfied, but exhausted at the same time.

“Good?” Geralt murmurs in the space between their faces, raising an eyebrow, looking up into Roche’s eyes.

“Very,” the man’s voice comes, and he clears his throat at the hoarseness. A flush seems to have settled onto his face, the pink hue making him look flustered and enticing and Geralt briefly considers his refractory period until Roche slaps a hand onto the water, the splash breaking their eye contact and the tension between them.

“Not enough?” Geralt teases, and Roche wiggles his hips, face scrunching up in thought.

“No, think I’m good. For now, at most,” he states. “I… meant what I said before. About… later,” he soldiers on, face coloring even more, averting his eyes with a scowl. So apparently not _everything_ had changed.

“Happy to hear,” Geralt smirks letting himself sink back in the tub, stretching his legs out. “Glad to help you out. Looking forward to it, actually,” he winks.

Roche glares at him, but there’s no real heat in it. His mouth pulls into an involuntary smile as he nods towards the Witcher, eyes bright.

“Looking forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Hope you like it. *hides
> 
> Title taken from a quote Geralt randomly cracked sometime in while wading through the muds around Fyke Isle in Velen.


End file.
